


terpsichorean affair

by bee_bro



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Human, Banter, Elias Centric, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Happy Ending, Jonah in a Corset, M/M, The Inherent Homoeroticism of the "Bite me" Attitude, aka the slang is accurate but i also dont mention ww1 at all, because thats an IMPORTANT tag fuck you, fight me, happy beginning and middle too, moderate historical accuracy, speakeasy, theres not an ounce of sad here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24094927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee_bro/pseuds/bee_bro
Summary: On April 14 Elias Bouchard walks into one of Nikola's speakeasies, and on a whim decides to hit on local moping stranger in a corset, Jonah Magnus. Despite being well-assured it won't lead anywhere (thanks Nikola!), what's the pain in trying?or: a spitfire conversation, a fast dance, and all of it to the tune of jazz that makes your blood sing.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonah Magnus, Nikola Orsinov/Jane Prentiss
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	terpsichorean affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wiredfiredready2xpire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiredfiredready2xpire/gifts).



> and im back with more bullshit! a 1920s au about dancing i did far too much research into jazz for lmao

Things have an interesting way of falling apart just to fall back together in new, startling, yet not unwanted formations.

Elias learns far, far later that everything had transpired the way it did due to a series of suspiciously accidental and utterly devastating social interactions that Jonah Magnus had on April 14th between 7am and 10pm. These misfortunes would lay base for the events of that same evening.

But he doesn't get to know about this yet. 

Because on April 14th Elias does not yet know Jonah Magnus.

All he knows is lecture classes, and the warm clap on the back from friends as they all accumulate in some basement, and wondering if his parents will ever call, and laughing with his buddies, and playing I spy with my little eye as they wait for drinks, and dragging his eyes around the room only to derail at the sight of an elegant waist and well-kept curling hair falling barely over wide shoulders.

He's seen a lot of interesting folk since following his buddies all the way from England to New Orleans of all places and then finally to New York, meeting people along the way, losing others, even if Annabelle remained by his side consistently throughout. He didn't have enough rooting him down even back in England, and so when she said to him, let's run away with Jane and Jude, Elias said yes. And New York was magnificent, New York was music and New York let Annabelle breathe easier and dance livelier and sing louder and it let Elias smile a bit wider and forget his shadows a bit better.

Nikola had led them into this speakeasy- they'd met her on a train neither of the parties present had paid for. He knew her accent and calmness meant she had big people for chummies around here, and so when she said she knew a good place for their Friday night, none of them objected. And so now she's got them the best table and fast service. Their drinks arrive as Jane complains that no, spying "that bloke's shoelaces" wasn't too difficult to guess, Jared just has to try harder!

It's on the house and Nikola is in her element here, dressed in a masculine suit and looking like a large comfortable cat, Jane in her lap, as she catches Elias staring at the curly brunet at the bar.

The game moves on to Annabelle and Jared arguing about something Elias can't bother with and Nikola leans over, her horrible radio host smile wide, "Choice bit of calico there, yes?"

Elias tears his eyes off the bar patron, "Don't hound me, Nikola." He sips his drink, "You know her?"

Nikola shrugs her unnecessarily padded shoulders (it's not like she needs the added width for God's sake) "Got that wrong, buddy, that's no dame for all he acts like one. Dramatic as all shits but the babe at the bar is a mister."

Elias eyes the patron again, "All's the better."

This sends Nikola into a rolling bout of laughter that sounds so perfect it can't be genuine. She's charismatic, Elias can appreciate a good act.

"What's he?" the ice in his drink clinks pleasantly. The jazz band comes onto the small stage meanwhile and he knows the music will soon drown out the natural sounds of drinking.

"That's Jonah Magnus," Nikola drinks her own bootleg, stronger than what Elias ordered, "Wouldn't see him at a place like this on a normal night, but he's a man of surprises. Head of that library up Seventh, inherited it and dragged his bum over here a few years ago from England, just like your little circus of runaways."

"Magnus..." Elias looks back to Nikola, "He game?"

"Even if he was, you'd have little chance, buddy, he's the type of bastard you haven't met, heir to a long line, big money. He'll see you try him and he'll put you in a designer Chicago overcoat that'll cost more than your entire wardrobe now, and then twelve feet under to be double sure, yes."

Nikola nods at Elias' suit and Elias knows he doesn't look too fresh but he's not the most disheveled he's ever been, there's style here, just not a lot of money behind it. He makes up for it with a smile and a swagger and people let it slide. Nikola looks at him with great pitty and greater amusement, "Well, honey-boy if you want to make Nikola laugh you know what to do, a good show's a good show even at the actor's expense."

"Get off my arse, I'll give it a try." Elias shrugs and slides out from behind their table as the band tunes their instruments to the public's first smattering of applause and whoops. Nikola sends a loud kissy noise after Elias and he hears his buddies at the table asking her where he's off to. Her reply is lost in the first notes of late-night jazz but whatever she says elicits a round of laughter at the table.

Elias knows a sullen drinker is sometimes hard game but men who wear obvious corsets are statistically more susceptible to Elias' offer to undo the laces in some backroom than those who don't. He'll approach Jonah Magnus and bet on making it out alive if only to spite Nikola.

He parks at the bar and observes Magnus for a few beats, he's elegant in the wrists but strong in the shoulders, and looks like someone who'd give a backhand instead of a punch. Pearly white button-up, the type's that never seen grime, green vest over the tracings of a corset, gold-tipped shoes, screaming inborn richness as much as his bored gaze and pinky-less hold on the whiskey scream inborn snootiness. He's pretty. Elias slides over, calling the barman and ordering himself another shot before turning to Magnus, "Can I get you anything as a treat?"

Magnus takes a moment to respond, looking over with his eyes first before turning his head, "Do I know you?"

"You're about to-"

But Magnus looks over Elias' shoulder faster than Elias can start his flirt and looks back, unsurprised, "Oh, you're one of Nikola's. Whatever baloney she wants to offer me, she can bite on it." Magnus turns back to his drink as if nothing's transpired.

Okay so he's difficult and sober, "Well, the only thing she sent me here with is some tattle about your nature." Elias shrugs, smiling, "Which I'm interested in fact-checking." The barman brings his drink.

Elias is aware that while Magnus looks off the cover of a Victorian history book, he himself passes more as a farmer someone cleaned up, shaved, and slapped into a suit. But guys and gals like his strong arms and shoulders and who's immune to a handsome smile?

Jonah Magnus, it seems.

"One for facts, are you then?" Magnus tilts his eyes at Elias, still facing away.

Elias grins wider, "Oh very, mister." He leans against the bar with his elbow as the music starts picking up, "For one, you're a sight to see and I'd like to keep looking."

Magnus slants his eyes once more, squinting, "Well, as far as facts go, would you like to hear another?"

Elias knows this is going to be an insult even before it's out of Magnus' pretty mouth but he'll bite, "Sure, as long as I get to listen to that voice of yours," he winks.

Magnus wrinkles his brow, "I'm not looking for a suitor, and that's a fact I'd like you to be aware of."

Elias twists in his seat, not a single beat discouraged outwardly, now leaning with his back on the bar and looking out as people begin drifting to dance under the leading notes of good music. "Well, Mister Magnus, I'm not looking for a gentleman's game either, this is New York and not Worcester, after all."

Magnus sighs, "And what's brought you so far across the ocean and right into this barstool to bother me as so? Ever considered going back?"

"Aye, to hells with England. I'm not happy to throw my jacket into a puddle so some doll can cross the street, I'd rather find myself in basements drinking with strangers, like yourself, Mister Magnus. The barstool next to yours is utmost alluring." Elias sips his drink, openly smiling at the uptight Englishman. He wonders what buttons need pushing to get Magnus in his lap or better, under him in the dark. "What about you? Why visit here when you'd much better fit in a five-star gold plated restaurant?"

Magnus sighs yet again, audible on purpose, regards his half-finished drink, and Elias seriously thinks he won't crack. But Magnus finally turns to face him if only partially, "Not all places offer this kind of anonymity. Hence you must understand my dislike at being addressed by name here, by a stranger."

Elias dares look past the natural beauty of Magnus and glimpses the deep-seated exhaustion of post-show performers. Elias lets his grin drape down into more of a smile, less of a game, less of a dance. More of a conversation.

"Well, no need being strangers then." He reaches his hand out, "Elias Bouchard, pleasure to meet you. I'll even pretend I don't know your name so you can introduce yourself likewise."

Magnus regards him and then his hand and then him again, apprehensive but ultimately resigned, "Jonah Magnus," he shakes it and his palm is cold and dry, small too. Pale, pretty.

"Good news, I'm not too keen on being seen here either so your appearance in this joint will remain strictly between us," Elias gestures at the two of them, and at Magnus' lazy glance behind Elias where Nikola and his other buddies sit, adds, "And I'll do my best to win Nikola's favor to keep her silence too."

"I doubt that."

"Anything to protect your honor and image." Elias nods in a mini-bow.

Magnus swiftly grins like he's caught Elias in a big fat lie, "Haven't you recently claimed you weren't keen on draping jackets over puddles for manners? How come the chivalry code applies now?"

The smile is... dismantling but Elias doesn't let it compromise his game, "I said that about the motherland's dames, a handsome man like you is another story."

"You don't get punched enough do you?" Magnus sighs now for the third time, "You go around and assume every man is sure and fine with being approached by another. New York may be forgiving but the world isn't."

Straight men didn't complain about the world being apparently unforgiving and so Elias adds a mental chip into the Magnus May Be Good Game jar.

The song breaks into a near saxophone solo, backed with the piano but barely. It's passionate and rings right through Elias' blood.

"Then punch me for all my efforts," Elias gives an easy smile, shrugging one shoulder, "Teach me a lesson."

Magnus studies him, assessing and cold, eyes trailing from Elias' face and over his body like he's looking for weakness. Elias is good in fights and good at getting into them and this doesn't feel like the lead-up to a brawl, so he remains relaxed and calm. No matter Nikola calling Magnus a wildcard of an Ethel. No matter: at least if he does get punched, it'll be a bruise sweeter than a hickey.

Magnus finally breaks the scrutiny and turns back to empty his glass in one mouthful, Elias getting a good show of the man's neck. Smooth above the high collar, a canvas for painting.

The saxophone reaches its peak and the other instruments break in, back into crowded yet coordinated music, the kind that makes you want to dance, makes you want to live. Magnus sets his glass down carefully like its clink wouldn't be lost in the breathing, moving sound of a well-hidden speakeasy anyway.

Elias waves down the bartender and orders for them both, not deeply alcoholic, just a buzz. Magnus dodges another glance behind Elias and Elias smiles at his disgruntled expression, "Should I be worried what's going on at the table?"

"They're watching us," Magnus lifts his eyebrows passively, "Whatever for?" He smiles calmly with a shrug, somehow ingenuine even at the smallest gesture.

Elias is yet to win a real smile from him, as these are all self-indulgent, like he's gracing the conversation with a favor instead of partaking. Too bad the night is young.

"I may have been caught staring by none other than our unfortunate mutual friend," Elias squints with a smile, venturing on how flattered Magnus would be if he admitted to eyeing him up and down. "And she told me to not take any wooden nickels from you, in no uncertain terms."

Magnus chuckles lightly, bitterly, "With your accent, it's rather repulsive hearing local slang spoken in the Queen's language." He drinks, facing away again but body angled at Elias. "I mourn your reputation in front of Nikola."

"Then I shall attend the funeral of your upper hand in the power play between you two." It's a bad guess at their rivalry.

But Magnus snaps his eyes over, attention sharp and slicing. It is awful being under his endless gaze and Elias cannot even begin comprehending escape. Magnus does not blink, "What are you implying?"

"Well, before I ventured out here, she guessed my chances as rather poor," Elias swirls his drink again, feeling marginally more sober with the adrenaline Magnus can apparently summon with attention alone, "And it'd be horrible if she were right. Horrible or the both of us."

Magnus knows he's being played. Elias can tell. Elias is still alive because he can tell when people catch onto his bullshit. When they can tell the gun Elias has is fake and therefore won't put lead in him since they're amused at the bravery. Turn up to a gunfight with a prop and a smile.

Turn up to the bar with a pick-up line and a grin.

Now it's all on Magnus. Elias knows a cat's teardrop's worth about Magnus, and if he'd rather accept his predictability in Nikola's eyes or if he'd rather indulge a recent acquaintance in a drink.

All he can do is listen to the music and the sound of dancing heels and trace the kind of green you could drown in in Magnus' eyes.

A long, heavy kind of moment drags itself over them, and Elias can feel the hairs on his arm tickle and rise in gooseflesh as Magnus slowly, ever so slowly, and with the utmost coldness of a statue, simply looks Elias up and down. Nothing more nothing less yet utterly rendering still.

"Elias Bouchard, you say?" Magnus inquires with the same intensity as dissection.

All Elias can do is nod, nod yes, and acknowledge that he has confronted something truly dangerous, not in the way Nikola is or Annabelle can be. He's met something that hasn't necessarily fought to the top: but has rather sacrificed one too many things to remain whole.

"Well, Elias Bouchard, let's not be strangers."

And thus the moment eases. Magnus flicks his gaze away and Elias can breathe.

He blinks and feels a damning smile creep onto his face as Magnus lifts a glass. "Indeed." He clinks his own against it and drinks, "And call me Elias, please."

"Elias, then." Magnus drinks too and doesn't stop looking at him, the look of a cat deeply engaged in an unsuspecting bird's final toying. "What person must you be, that you freely approach people you are discouraged against approaching in bars?"

It's getting warm from the alcohol and the people and the eyes on him and Elias strips off his suit jacket to aid it, yet not feeling the tad bit drunk.

"Well, what may I use in my defense? It was simply too difficult to resist. And I'm yet to regret it, Mister Magnus, am I?"

"I refuse to believe your journey up until here has been a reassuring one towards harassing strangers."

"Not strangers." Elias tips his glass at Magnus as a reminder, smiling, "I've been chased off before, true, but what's a Friday without a fight? It's worth it, for those that don't pick violence over a pleasant barside conversation."

Magnus huffs, "Oh, aren't you a hard-boiled egg, you. Boasting about being a hotshot like it's an amendable feature."

Elias tries very hard not to bristle, "I don't go around with a scarless face cause I pick fights and can't hold up my end. I've got some kicks in me. Context clues would imply some things about my 'features'."

Elias is running out of drink in his glass and it's lighter stuff for the sake of not going half-seas over before he can see what Magnus is made of. Magnus nods with a bored look, "Sure thing, Elias."

At this Elias lifts an arm and flexes, then shrugging and leaning it back on the bar, "Sure, Mister Magnus." He knows he makes a pretty sight. It better do the trick.

Magnus looks marginally less bored but soon interrupts the look of amusement on his face by downing his drink: another token for the jar, ey?

"For your knowledge, your table of friends is laughing at your rather tactless approach," Magnus smiles at Elias' expense and hails the barkeep.

"Oh, well I'm facing you so it's not like they matter." Elias smiles as Magnus orders two drinks.

"So when you turn away from me you'll stop caring?" Magnus, without a glass for his hands to keep busy, leans his chin on one, marveling. "Rather disappointing."

"I doubt I'll ever be able to tear my eyes away, frankly," Elias muses with the nonchalance of played up sincerity. Magnus has angled himself progressively more and their knees aren't too far from touching. Elias will keep an eye on that.

"Horrid lies you speak," Magnus smiles, and when their drinks come shortly, Elias raises his glass before the other can.

"To never diverting one's gaze then."

Magnus curls his mouth in an expression that needs another word apart from 'smile' as there is more smug joy behind it than sincerity, "Eternal eye contact? Rather tiring, no?" Meanwhile, he doesn't break said eye contact and clinks their glasses.

They drink.

"I'd agree but, regrettably, I'm long lost in your eyes and doubt I'd ever be let to leave, Mister Magnus, I hope you understand." Elias leans forward marginally after setting his glass down, "I'm afraid I'll never find myself again after such an enamoring encounter."

Magnus' smile stretches wider, pearly white teeth, a status symbol, sharp canines, a warning. "Then you shall rot within my endless watch for all eternity." He too leans closer, locking all of Elias' attention as if with an iron mit, the music becoming nonsensical in the scrutiny of those greens. Elias can't do anything but lean closer too, prey entranced by danger, not searching for a kiss on the proximity for once in his life, rather searching for a better understanding of such phenomenon as Jonah Magnus.

They're close now that the space is only theirs, and Magnus controls all of it, the greatest kingpin of predatory effect. "Elias Bouchard," He muses once more. It is horrible having your name said in that liminal space. Magnus places his hand atop Elias' where it rests on the bar, fingers cold, "Tell me, Elias." His voice doesn't have to be loud, "Are you scared?"

"Yes." Elias says before his rational brain can catch up to the animalistic fight or flight desire Magnus instills in the stretching seconds of direct attention. "Yes."

And Magnus smiles, sickly sweet like rotted apricots: Elias realizes this is familiar to Magnus, this is what he's like when he's not moping, tired, in a mediocre speakeasy. He puts up all this on a daily basis as a caricature of what wasn't ripped away in the climb up the food chain. A masking, healing layer over bone-deep exhaustion that's been accumulating for years and that had boiled up to the surface on April 14th and lead Magnus to liquor in a basement. It is a staggering amount of understanding that floods Elias but suddenly he is sure in his full and complete understanding of the difference between real Magnus and what's looking at him now like it's won. And that just won't do.

Elias flips his hand palm-up, catching Magnus' where it rests atop, "How about for a dance, then?" And he grins, pulling them both up and into the open floor already swimming with patrons and the boisterous, fast jazz of a good night to die young.

Magnus stumbles, so comically baffled it makes him look a good decade younger and a whole lot less like a threat of infinite skill. He involuntarily grips Elias' hand back and within three steps, Elias whips around, letting Magnus crash into him almost, coming to stand in front of Elias, tall and pretty, still holding hands. He vacantly says, "I don't dance like this." But Elias takes his other hand and starts them swaying in a joke of a waltz.

"How do you then?" Elias smiles up at him, keeping his touches light, "Show me."

Magnus comes back to his senses, looking around them in distaste and quickly back to Elias, "How sordid. Crowds." He doesn't stop swaying with Elias.

A token for the jar, then.

"Well, there's always the option of clearing the floor," Elias does his best to amp his charm back up, pitches his voice lower: after all, all courting no matter how untoward, is a game with its own cheats. "That is, if the dancing couple at question is good."

"Like being the center of attention, don't you?" Magnus remarks, looking at Elias like at spoiled produce, "What makes you think I'll dance."

Elias tactfully does not point out they're already doing so now, "You're hitting on all eight, Mister Magnus, don't blame me for assuming you've got some good routines under that corset of yours. Be a shame learning them and never indulging, ey?"

"Bold, aren't we?" Magnus smirks again.

"Can't blame a dizzy man, put me on cloud nine, Mister Magnus, twist me like a dame that's not your own, dance me like you want to prove a point."

Magnus curves in a bit to get closer in height with Elias, "And what point is that?"

Elias gives him the widest smile of a man not afraid of his own end, "That you matter more than the fear you can cause." He sees Magnus startle at this, and continues with a wink, "Or just the opposite of whatever point Nikola had about you. Take your pick."

"Terrible," Magnus mutters, tilting his head back up to listen to the music for a few beats, "Terrible." He says again and then he smiles and changes the hold Elias has on him, taking the leading role and pressing on Elias, chests now inseparable. "See if you can keep up."

"I grew up dancing, baby, you can't muddle these feet."

And Magnus takes that as a challenge. He sends them into a wicked Foxtrot first, the kind you can't find at friendly casual dances, yet Elias catches up quickly and matches the step to the beat and to Magnus, heels hitting the floor light and with satisfying, lightning strike clicks, synchrony with Magnus established fast and exquisite.

"Easy." Elias smirked, hands strong and movements familiar, "Is this all you can do while wearing a corset?"

Magnus looks down at him, swinging them to the music and watchful of the other dancers, "No. And you must be aware I wasn't exactly planning on dancing you into the floor tonight."

"Well you're gonna have to try harder," Elias grins and Magnus grins back, his lead strong and well-trained, definitely someone to learn their dances with a private tutor and not on the fly against someone they'd just met like Elias had years ago.

Magnus' hand is strong against Elias' shoulder blades and the built-up muscle of his shoulders holds up, he maneuvers them and Elias dares press back, contributing to the direction of the dance out of spite. Magnus hisses, "Don't. You'll run us into people and out of the pub."

"I'm not the lead, I can't be blamed." Elias smiles and lets Magnus momentarily dip him, shallow and effortless, and they snap back into it, Magnus pushing the limits on how fast the dance can go before coming apart from the music's beat.

"Oh, oh, Mister Magnus," Elias exclaims against Magnus' chest, "Haven't you been taught the staple of good dancing?"

Magnus bristles at the comment and spins them again, "And what is that, you street-side scrap?"

"A good dancer is marked by his ability to match the move to the music," Elias has his hand wide against Magnus' back too, enjoying where he's warm unlike his palms, "Even I know that, and my teachers were adrenaline and mistakes."

"No matter your attempts to spoil it, I am successfully keeping us on beat, Elias." Magnus spins them again, "You are simply delusional."

"Too bad," It's harder to talk when he's dancing faster than the casual Foxtrot entails and is keeping his skill in sharp focus, hell-bent on not allowing a single misstep, "Guess I just have too much free time to spare on delusions, comes natural with an easy dance."

Magnus growls somewhere deep in his chest and snaps Elias out on an arm, sending him spinning before tugging bag just as insistently, until Elias comes right back to the tight press of chest to chest. The pause in footwork gives Magnus the window to change dances and he throws them into a rather standard version of the West Coast Swing, something less taught in courses and more loved across late nights and loud instruments.

It's a wonder Magnus knows this, Elias thinks, but it's no wonder the version he knows is one of the simpler.

"Thought to catch me off guard," Elias matches step, allowing Magnus an easy lead, "Too bad I know this to hells and back."

"Too bad indeed," Magnus swings them, "A modern tragedy of the uneducated terpsichorean."

"For all my knowledge on the dancefloor," they spin to the music, "I'm less savvy in the components of a dictionary." For all its universality, the Foxtrot has helped Elias greatly to figure out Magnus' style, and he improvises to match the more uncertain nature of West Coast Swing.

Magnus chuckles, breathing fast and short, "Terpsichorean: of or relating to dancing." He moves with more range now, the floor having cleared, a mass of people instead replaced by the on-beat clap of their new audience, "I can't believe I'm dancing with an illiterate kluck."

It's easy to dance with Magnus, he's strong and sharp in it and Elias feels matched for the run of his money, "Well, if I knew all about everything," oh how they dance, "then you'd never be able to tell me about things, I'd always just already know." Elias' soles hurt in that hard-earned way of an upbeat rhythm, "But for now I'm just a hungry," he looks at Magnus' neck and makes sure Magnus can see, "hungry listener."

"You objectify me to no end, Elias."

"Then protest, Mister Magnus."

"Maybe I shall." A wild, exhilarated smile cracks onto Magnus' face, the cheer of patrons and the swell of the music all but the backing to his overpowering possession of the space on the dancefloor that they now command. "How well do you know Tango?"

"The slow and boring kind?"

"You wound me, my dear," Magnus has a playful glint in his eye, "The kind to die for."

"Oh, that? I know it well enough to outdance the devil," Elias grins back, manic and wired, electric in his movements and steel in his hold of Magnus, and while the West Coast Swing was tamer in the range of motion, the Tango finds them going at it at an impossible proximity and at the limit of Magnus' corset.

"Dip me better, you pompous bastard," Elias pants mere centimeters from Magnus' face.

"I'm not dressed for the occasion, baby," Magnus huffs back, seemingly annoyed at himself too, his long hair sticking to his temples with sweat.

"I can help," Elias chances his hands back behind Magnus to find the lacing and is immediately removed from access as Magnus spins him over so they're facing the same way, chest to back.

"Improper."

"Stubborn, aren't you," Elias grins, and as they spin catches sight of his table, clapping along and looking everywhere between miffed, elated, and downright hysterical.

"Oh, sinfully so," Magnus purs into his ear and flips him back, smiling.

Elias has seldom had a better dance partner, "Mister Magnus? I don't suppose you get to dance often enough, do you?" They break apart and come back together, "Going around New York with all this training and no outlet, deep-set skill may be forgiving but the lack of practice sure isn't."

_but the world isn't._

Magnus can tell he's being mocked and only smiles wider, "Then dance me until I fall in love, teach me a lesson." He mocks back.

"In love, Mister Magnus?"

"In love with the dance."

And so Elias takes the lead this time and makes his very first move a sweeping dip of Magnus, his curls touching the floor, small of his back secure with Elias' arm, and Elias lets him hang there for a moment, mostly so they can catch their breaths - especially the half of the duo wearing a sodding corset. Magnus stares up at him, then down at where he's held, breathing hard. Elias speaks quietly but with a free, unintentional grin, "Tell me, Mister Magnus," the words are curled with mirth yet stem off a genuine glee, "Are you afraid?" They're close, so close.

"That you will kiss me?"

"That I will drop you."

"Oh," Magnus smiles, "Then no."

And Elias pulls them back up into dance, another Swing but this time the Jitterbug branch of it, splaying his hand on Magnus and taking them through the fast footwork of it, cheek-to-cheek, toe-to-toe, he's never danced like it mattered before, and now it does more than ever, and it's fast and he's getting dizzy almost, spinning Magnus, wanting to laugh, laugh, and Magnus is smiling too, going along with the lead, malleable and cohesive and it's stopped being a competition, they're solely focused on matching unpracticed moves of a dance that's not yet made for the speed they're going and they go at it for long enough to overdose.

There's whoops and the drummer is going nuts on the music's crescendo and Elias is getting tired in that sweet breakneck way as Magnus inhales sharp and fast, red in the face but not slowing down, and as the sax hits a long, lasting note, Elias dips him one last time, and this time Magnus has his arms locked around Elias' neck, panting and grinning like a madman, eyes locked on Elias as he hangs above the floor, and they are the pieta of life, as the drums bang out a waterfall of noise and the song draws to a strong, vivid punch of a finish.

"As a man of facts-" Elias begins, and Magnus smiles up at him all in a matter of seconds, eyes lovely and alive.

"Call me Jonah."

Elias swallows back his sentence and lifts them back upright to an overwhelming roll of applause and hollering, "Okay."

They finally turn to the onlookers of their dance, people lined along the walls leaving a circular stage of plain wooden floor for them to explore each other on through the familiar rhythm of on the fly choreography, and they're all clapping and smiling like the well-meaning adrenaline of dancing has been transferred to them as well. The band is smiling too, glad to play for a receptive pair, and Jonah is positively shining, thriving at the pulpit of being seen, surrounded on all sides by eyes. He bows in good manner and Elias follows, and the band picks up again as people drift back onto the floor, chattering and laughing, and Jonah taps Elias' shoulder still grinning.

"Yeah?" Elias glances up, panting but already beginning to come down from the racing heartbeat, legs buzzing from work.

"I can't breathe." Jonah says through his grin of teeth, still high on elation but beginning to falter, his grip on Elias' upper arm like a bear trap.

"Shit-" Elias feels like he's suddenly awake without having fallen asleep, "There's a backroom here, let's go get you some inhales." He pulls Jonah by the hand to the bar and behind it, throwing the barman an apologetic smile and hoping his relations to Nikola will keep him covered, seeing as she definitely has partial ownership of the speakeasy.

They stumble into the dark room and Elias pulls the light switch string, throwing the old couch and array of mops into heavy yellow light like through a bottle's glass. Jonah's starting to wheeze and Elias quickly shoves his shirt out of the way and begins undoing the laces - something he's almost remarkably talented at albeit never having to wear one or being familialy related to anyone who did. And thank God for that.

Jonah swallows air immediately when the binding loosens and rolls over to face Elias, breathing freely, "I see you've got quite a lot of practice doing that."

"I'm a man of opportunity," Elias shrugs, calm and feeling so deeply satiated he wouldn't mind sleeping now, to hells with it.

"Thought you were a man of facts." Jonah smiles up at him easily, the exhaustion back in his features, yet physical now instead of social. “But I do suppose one doesn’t negate the other. Where did you learn to dance?”

Elias sits next to Jonah on the futon, letting himself go ragdoll as his body sings with a dance well done and a stage well-performed upon- even if so little of it was ever acting.

“Places like this, mostly.” He says up into the ceiling, “watching people and then trying it out, and Annabelle isn’t a half-bad dancer. Taught me all the basic forms. You won’t guess how easy it is to pick-pocket people during a mass shuffle.” He looks over at Jonah who’s watching him with passive yet interested eyes. “I’m supposing you had private lessons or some such?”

Jonah chuckles lightly, “Some such.” He takes the corset off completely so he may slump next to Elias, their sides pressed together much like their chests have been throughout the dance, “Grew up learning waltz as a wee thing, had no interest for it, really.”

“Back in England?”

“Indeed. Then when I moved here, it’d be a due missed opportunity to not be well-informed of the criminal underbelly of entertainment.”

“Wouldn’t be criminal if the government kept its shit together,” Elias huffs and Jonah tuts him.

“Alas, I don’t frequent these places but I’d seen dancing from my first few steps into New York, right next to the homeless and the other well-loved components of this country.” Jonah drips with irony and Elias can’t help but focus solely on listening, some people: simply natural storytellers, voices captivating. “And I suppose I despise not knowing. I needed to understand how they could make it up on the go and remain in tandem. In rhythm and in form. So I learned in private and never found much chance to put it to practice.”

“Today’s must last you a lifetime from here on out, huh?” Elias turns to look at Jonah, back to his pale beauty, even if still marked with sweat and rather rumpled. Elias must look the same if not worse, both of them rag-a-muffin with the craze of music.

Jonah lolls his head over, and once more Elias is the butterfly pinned under that gaze and contained forever in the prospect of being known, marked, and studied.

“A man of opportunity, fact, and also promise, that you are.” He says, calm and unguarded and devastatingly beautiful, “For you have indeed made rather brilliant company on the dance floor, as I am catastrophically enamored with dance once more.”

“Must be a rather disappointment then, to yearn for dance and to dislike the grimier establishments then, since that’s where all the fun’s at,” Elias smiles, allowing himself the luxury of playing with Jonah’s hair, “What did you call it? Who’s tragedy?”

“Terpsichorean.” Jonah closes his eyes and slants to lean on Elias.

“And let me tell you something, baby, after me, every dance partner will feel slow.” Elias lets his flirtier colors paint the line but he feels the same draw of bitterness poisoning the words, the premature loss of something that’ll never happen: another dance with Jonah, and another, and another. Any amount. Only to have him smiling again.

“I’m afraid you are awfully correct, Elias.” Jonah sighs, and it is not the kind he’d made so much earlier at the bar- this but an exhale of agreement and equal sorrow. “And I do not praise the fact it is so.”

Elias cards his fingers through Jonah’s hair, sweat-soaked, but what if this is his last chance? He never wants to move ever again, “I’m afraid too.”

They sit in the relative silence of wall-hampered music and the shuffle of people. The buzzing of the lightbulb and the gentle tide of their breaths.

“Why did you pick this one? This place.” Elias ventures, if only to hear Jonah speak, which is a treat of its own.

“I lied about anonymity.” Jonah says, “Partially. I do indeed prefer to go unrecognized, but I also wasn’t averse to annoying Nikola with my presence.”

Elias snorts at that, “Noble cause. If anything, there’s many opportunities to annoy her further. She’s invited us to a house just a few hours off the city for some overnight party in a few weeks. Would be a shame if someone spoiled her fun.”

Jonah chuckles, “Oh, you’re interested in inconveniencing her as well?”

No, not really, he’s just interested in Jonah being there, Elias knows clear and straight. Alas. “I am.” He pulls a hum out of Jonah as he presses his fingers against Jonah’s scalp. “Would be a rather unfortunate coincidence if you were to turn up.”

“Would be.” Jonah confirms and melts further into the couch.

Elias lets his body rest, yet the echoes of movement run through his veins and he is forever in debt to this night.

They fall asleep on the couch. April 14th is the staple in their separate universes holding them together and they are woken up by the barkeep and Nikola, both looking like they’d expected a far less appropriate scene than two men napping on a tiny couch. Nikola practically drags Elias out of there by his collar as he dies every step of the way from both drowsiness and dread, and hands him over to Jared who’s both stronger and more patient. Elias whines enough that even Jared threatens to put him in the coroner’s meat wagon – and Elias asks him what the hell that is, because even all his years trespassing through the United States haven’t caught him up on all ends and sides of local language.

“An ambulance, Elias.” Jane chimes in, rather the drunkest of them all and wobbly. It’s the last thing on Elias’ mind when he passes out once more and only regains light the next morning.

April 15th, Jonah is a dream.

Elias has lectures and he drags his philosophy textbooks with hands that remember Jonah and wonders how much of that was real and how much was utter biff. Settles on that only the most realistic of details happened – and he probably got brushed off still at the bar.

April 29 finds Elias at a pretty estate with a pool and then with the whiplash shock of making contact with familiar green eyes. Jonah is very much there and very much real, and they steal liquor and hide out on the roof, Jonah with infinite knowledge of stars and Elias with infinite desire to listen. The night fades into obscurity and Elias wakes up in a bush downstairs.

Then he meets Jonah at a scholar’s book fair and then again at a restaurant and then at Jonah’s library-adjoined home that he’d inherited. And Jonah teaches him the proper waltz, slow to make up for their first-ever dance, and lets Elias dip him again, asking if he’s afraid.

“That you’d drop me?” Jonah laughs and Elias kisses him.

It’s not the best of ideas, kissing someone who likes being kissed when you’re also holding them up and trusting that they won’t wriggle. He does drop Jonah, but it’s a small price to pay. Jonah kisses eagerly, teeth and all the same energy that’d lead their first dance, only better.

Jonah will one day tell him about the dispute with Fairchild and the arson attempt at his library and then the attempt at his life by a short woman with a knife that all transpired in one day in that order, ultimately pushing Jonah to sulk in the bar, utterly unaware of how much that would put in the gamble of one wicked fast dance. But that’s all later.

The world may not be forgiving, but the intimacy of terpsichorean affair is.

**Author's Note:**

> so my friend sent me this utmost abhorrent text:  
> "dance monkey but it's 1920 and you're a weed smoking bootleg drinking bad boy looking across the seedy bar w/ ur gaze falling on the small waist and perky ass of the head of an institute and heir to a respectable line"  
> and I'm putting it here for record because i trust they won't be too happy about rereading said text at the end here.  
> i don't know how i ended up here but alas


End file.
